


what little lies you have

by nutteu



Category: Kami Nomi zo Shiru Sekai | The World God Only Knows
Genre: F/M, I'm Serious, and then it turned out to be this, i meant to write fluff, my grammar and vocabs are meh, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:10:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutteu/pseuds/nutteu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t love; it was only the way crumbs of red bean paste clung to her cheek, the way she sung her unfinished song, the way sun lights made her seemed unreal for a moment, the way her pick weighed down your pocket like a stubborn anchor refused to be forgotten, and the way it hurt, everything hurt when she bid you the last farewell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what little lies you have

 

It was still inside your pocket—her pick. In the midst of crowd, you saw her opened her palm and felt that something throbbed, something ached. So you tried to stop it, only, when you put your own palm there, you found something small weighing down your heart.

 

It was too much. You could no longer be here. Not with the way her eyes scanned the sea of people around, trying to find something, _someone_. Not with the way she perfectly concealed the emotions within her heart and _get over it_. Not with the way she looked so strong and forgiving—

 

Your legs had brought you to the roof, the very same roof where you said those awful things to her (your life was one pathetic irony, it seemed), before you could collapse and break down, because your heart wasn’t strong enough for this particular reality. You thought, sometimes your legs could be useful other than running from reality.

 

She was sweating, you absentmindedly thought. But she did give the best performance she had promised. Ah, her face was wet, _too_ , that time, and you tried to not think about the different kind of wetness marring her face. But you did, and there was this feeling; gnawing at your heart, clawing inside and tear it apart.

 

You tried, really, to stomp on that feeling until it squeaked under your heels. To no avail, nonetheless. It was embarrassing. No one ever made you like this. But she—she was different, wasn’t she? Because she was Chihiro.

 

She didn’t need forgotten memories, she didn’t have to be a goddess, she didn’t have to have something to do with all these tangled mess to love you. She just needed to be Chihiro, who was normal and liked music, who was harsh and always honest, who was strong and was stupid enough to love someone like _you_ , you who didn’t know how to handle your own feelings.

 

And yet. And yet this wasn’t love.

 

No, of course not, you tell yourself as your eyes prickled. There was something warm beneath your lids, and it _wouldn’t back the hell down, why were these tears—_

 

It wasn’t love; it was only the way crumbs of red bean paste clung to her cheek, the way she sung her unfinished song, the way sun lights made her seemed unreal for a moment, the way her pick weighed down your pocket like a stubborn anchor refused to be forgotten, and the way it hurt, everything hurt when she bid you the last farewell.

 

So if you heard her last stanza, and if your cheeks were as wet as hers, and if you felt your heart missing a little piece that left a haunting hollow, then you would know that it wasn’t love.

 

It wasn’t love at all.

 


End file.
